


Monstrous

by Sapph



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, F/M, Fucked Up Characters, GH-325, Madness, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, better ending, can't say happy, cause they're both a little fubar, there's always hope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 20:50:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2039655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapph/pseuds/Sapph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The clasp of her hands grounds him; the crescent-shaped marks beneath her fingertips are wishes upon dead stars, and with every kiss she brands him bargained and bought.</p><p>She paid dearly for his affections, but he knows how to sell a lie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monstrous

He once thought love would come when he was older, when he learned to obey the rules he'd been taught, but his heart was never what they desired, only the brush and slide of his body.

 

Their eyes are cold and nip at his heels as he runs, and no matter how fast he dares to go, time always catches up with him. As the years pass, his heart hardens and he boxes away his troubles like he did his past. He believes it will make him stronger.

 

There are stones in the hollow of his chest that weigh him down, but he learns to hide the symptoms -and if at times his feet drag and his shoulders slump, he's almost grateful no one cares.

 

He once thought he would feel better when he grew up, when he ceased to be the little boy who always fell short. He never considered that deep down he might always stay that frightened child -it bleeds through his eyes if one cares to look, darkens the brown to obscurity and solidifies the golden accents into a mask.

 

He is a creature of chaos; it stirs in the tips of his fingers as they brush the trigger, and shudders through his bones like a shock wave as the bullet hits its mark.

 

He is the picture of a soldier, all solid muscle and barbed wire -he is no one's son, fostered only by war and suffering.

 

He is a killer.

 

The curve of his back is a flawed line, drawn so tight it cracked in the middle, and he cannot hide the weakness in his spine, not from her.

 

And that is why when Skye strikes, she cripples him.

 

He was taught to eliminate his faults, but they pile up in heaps of rusted accusations until the words threaten to suffocate him.

 

There is no space to breath when you're a waste.

 

\---

 

Apologies become mocking laughter upon raw lips. Sometimes it is he who snaps, all the tightly wound strings of guilt unravelling into madness, but it is Skye who rarely admits regret -it forces him to wonder whether she feels any at all.

 

He seeks the light inside her vivid eyes, but finds only a reflection of the darkness he carries within himself.

 

It frightens him.

\---

 

The curious gaze that digs into the space between his shoulder blades is steady, even as the young man's fingers falter and drop the metallic cylinder to the cluttered surface of the worktable.

 

One glance at Fitz is all it takes to be reminded of the damage he has wrought inside their lives and in this brilliant mind that now sparks interrupted signals reminiscent of defective radios.

 

It is as if the world around him is but an echo of his own derelict psyche.

 

“Hand me that container?” the engineer asks gesturing, and he obeys -it is sickening how relieved he feels to be given, even if but briefly, an objective to carry out.

 

He has spend too many days now purposeless.

 

_\---_

 

There is a gaping hole inside of his head as if someone removed the part of his brain that defined his identity. He feels like a mask you put aside; on his own he is none-existent.

 

The clasp of her hands grounds him; the crescent-shaped marks beneath her fingertips are wishes upon dead stars, and with every kiss she brands him bargained and bought.

 

She paid dearly for his affections, but he knows how to sell a lie.

 

“I'll take care of you,” she promises, and it is more than he had ever dared to hope for.

 

 _But how can she save me_ , he doubts at times, when she cries in frustration and trashes violently as if the demons inside her are fighting to get out; _if she can't save herself?_

 

\---

 

“This might sting,” Simmons warns as she presses the alcohol swab against the cut on his forearm where one of the men had managed to graze him with a knife. It isn't very deep and only pulls at his skin slightly. If Simmons hadn't insisted, he would have simply shrugged it off.

 

“How are you feeling?” she asks, a hesitant note to her voice.

 

For a moment he is confused; he looks down at the laceration on his arm. “I am okay,” he says slowly, testing the words in his mouth and hoping he gave the right answer.

 

She smiles too quickly, her eyes scrunching not in genuine appreciation but barely veiled concern, and he knows he said the wrong thing. It makes his stomach churn and his legs ache with the urge to run away -but there is nowhere to go, not with the bracelet they locked like a manacle around his right wrist.

 

“That's good,” she assures, nodding. “How is- Skye?” Her voice rises at the end like it always does when she's nervous, and he finds himself unwilling to answer this question. But he has no choice. It was one of the rules laid out to him when he rejoined the team nearly two years ago.

 

“She wasn't hurt,” he settles, because it's the truth, and though he doesn't understand what she wants from him, he can at least give her that.

 

“I know,” Simmons says, pursing her lips in a placid smile that bleeds into frustration at the edges. She has long finished cleaning the cut, and is now simply standing in front of him, twisting the used gauze in her hands as she stares at his face like it will supply her with the answers she seeks. It's slightly unnerving, and if she just told him what she wanted, maybe he would be able to comply.

 

“It's just,” Simmons starts, “she hasn't been a little _odd_ lately?”

 

He blinks and tries to recall anything out of the ordinary, but all he can think of is the shouting match she had with Coulson yesterday where she had all but spat and called him a fool.

 

He had followed her out of the room and borne the brunt of her rage, had let her rip the clothes off his body and expel her anger on the canvass of his skin. The look of gratitude in her eyes and the sweet press of her lips against his jaw as she slumped against him had been worth every discomfort.

 

“No,” he says, racking his memory. “I don't think so.”

 

Simmons looks disappointed. “That's good,” she echoes her earlier words -they're still a lie.

 

Something is wrong.

 

\---

 

He shudders when her hands slip beneath his shirt, fingers gliding up the curve of his spine. Times like these she is so gentle his heart aches with love. It's all he ever wanted, but it's never enough to set him at ease.

 

He knows those hands can hurt just as easily.

 

But he's determined not to screw up the only good thing in his life. He turns and captures her lips. She groans into his mouth and presses closer. The kiss only lasts a few seconds but it's enough to leave them both flustered.

 

“Morning,” she drawls with a lop-sided smile. He brushes a lock of hair from her face and leans his forehead against hers. They don't speak, but her eyes are wide and warm and they swallow all his uncertainty. This is the woman he loves, playful and tender and safe.

 

It's a side of her that rarely appears anymore.

 

\---

 

The first time she hits him in front of their team mates he wants to cower and hide. He's not sure if its due to the fact that they're in public or that her fist had collided with his jaw so hard he'd almost heard his bones rattle. He doesn't however, because he's not a scared little kid anymore, he doesn't run from altercations but faces them dutifully -he'd rather take her anger now than deal with her disappointment later.

 

Simmons looks horrified as he remains frozen in place. Skye curses, not so much at him but the world in general, and her limbs twitch like they usually do before she starts raging. For a moment her eyes are wide and frightened but they shutter to resentment and anger that almost sparks in the air.

 

He tenses for whatever she's about hurl at him next, but is surprised when she turns to Simmons instead.

 

“What the hell are you looking at?” she screams. Jemma literally jumps back, stumbling over her own feet and almost crashing into the couch. Fitz reaches out to steady her and scowls at Skye, though more in shock than anger. Before he can react, May cuts in.

 

“Calm down Skye,” she says in her trademark no-nonsense voice that would scare any sane being into silence. But the look in Skye's eyes is one he recognizes, it's wild and frantic like a cornered animal, and provoking her can only end badly.

 

“ _Don't_ tell me to CALM DOWN!” she roars, flailing her arms.

 

He reaches out for her before she can do any damage to her friends, knowing she would regret it later, but the moment his fingers touch her arm, she spins towards him and shoves him into the wall with a strength she shouldn't possess.

 

“Don't you dare,” she hisses when Fitz moves to help him up. “He's mine.”

 

The engineer is close enough for Grant to see his face twist in dismay. He shrugs of the man's help and stands on his own, unwilling to let anyone get hurt because of him. He's the one she's angry at.

 

Skye starts yelling almost incoherently until her cries start to sound more like the wailing of a tortured creature than a human being.

 

“Skye,” he pleads, causing her to turn. He can see the tension simmering beneath her skin, but something has settled in her eyes and he knows the anger's draining. She stumbles forward and collapses into his arms.

 

“Help me,” she whimpers into his shoulder as her body shakes against his. “Make me feel good.” He feels his blood run cold when her fingers start tugging on his belt. _Surely she can't mean to- Not here._

 

He catches her wrists and pulls them away. She cries out in frustration and slams her palms against his chest.

 

“Fitz, get Coulson,” he hears May bark before the scientist scurries off. He meets her eyes and wishes he hadn't. She looks pained, as if this is somehow all her fault, which is ridiculous because it is his. Simmons seems to understand that though, she won't even look at him.

 

Skye has calmed down considerably by the time Coulson enters the room, Trip following close behind. She's leaning against him, as if all her strength has suddenly deserted her.

 

“What's going on?” Coulson asks, his eyes focussing on Skye who seems unaware of the commotion she's caused.

 

May shakes her head and sighs. “We need to talk.” And even though her words are directed to Coulson, her gaze is trained on him.

 

\---

 

“It's the GH-325,” Simmons tries to explain. “It's affected her differently. Caused her to be more-” she hesitates, “unstable.”

 

“Like Garrett?” he manages to force out.

 

She cocks her head and scrunches her face as if considering. “Sort of. The process was slower though, it might have something to do with her antibodies. I won't be certain until I examine her blood again.”

 

“You never noticed anything out of the ordinary?” Fitz asks sceptically. It's clear he's already come to his own conclusions.

 

Grant's gaze finds itself locked to his knees as he shakes his head.

 

“What about her little fit yesterday? That's never happened before?”

 

“What do you want me to say?” he croaks. Fitz, who had opened his mouth to continue, falters.

 

“Has she hurt you before?” Simmons asks tentatively.

 

“Nothing I didn't deserve,” he assures them and Fitz looks angry, probably wondering what else he did wrong to deserve being punished.

 

Simmons glances at him with an unreadable expression, before her gaze shifts back to the clipboard in her hand.

 

He nearly chokes on the silence that follows.

 

\---

 

“She used you,” May says brusquely, “to vent, to get off, it doesn't matter.”

 

“You're right,” he nods, “it doesn't matter.”

 

She looks stricken. “What she did was wrong. You shouldn't have let her-” she stops, anger twisting her normally smooth face. “You should have told us what was going on. Why didn't you?”

 

He looks up at her, confused. “She had every right to hurt me. I betrayed you.”

 

“That was a long time ago,” she says. “You should have said something. We could've helped her sooner.”

 

For the first time he actually feels guilty. “I'm sorry,” he says.

 

She just sighs as if he's missed the point.

 

“What's going to happen now?” he wonders.

 

“Simmons thinks she might be able to reverse the side-affects.”

 

He wants to be happy about that, because it hurt seeing her so undone in front of her friends, and frankly a part of him had thought he had been responsible for her episodes. He can't help but fear, however, that without that darkness she'll have no use for him.

 

It's a selfish thought, but he's always been sickening. He'll take whatever she dishes out.

\---

 

She finds him holed up in his bunk, where's he's been for the last two days while Simmons prepared to administer the cure she'd developed. Skye had been raging mad, shouting and throwing things so they'd sedated her for the remainder of the time.

 

Now, she's standing in the doorway, the light behind her shimmering around her still form like a pale aura -she looks like an avenging angel. He doesn't dare to move or breath, just closes his eyes and waits for the verdict to fall.

 

He hears the door slide shut and shudders because he can still feel her there. The mattress sinks when she sits down next to him. For a while there is only silence and bright spots on the back of his eyelids. When the body next to his starts shaking, he thinks she's having another attack, until she draws in a sharp breath and he realizes she is crying.

 

He opens his eyes to look at her, but her face is buried in her hands. When she finally glances up, she looks so utterly broken and lost, he feels guilt claw in the pit of his stomach, dragging itself up his ribcage and into his heart. _He_ did this.

 

“I'm sorry,” she whispers wetly. “I couldn't stop- I remember everything.”

 

He doesn't understand what she's apologizing for.

 

\---

 

When love finally finds him, the boy who believed in it is long dead -it strips the rotten skin from his bones.

 

 


End file.
